Apprenticeship, Take Two

Marathoning Patrick Jane over the past couple of weeks has once again established my interest in developing acuity of memory. While I have no exceptional mental capacity, and indubitably have diminished my ability to store and process information by maintaining a continual state of exhaustion, not to mention the copious indulgence in caffeine and the playing of near to a thousand games of Solitaire, I firmly believe that I can at least reclaim a brain that funtions at average speeds and possesses a firm grasp of logic. Hence, the trading of Solitaire for Mahjong (with the stipulation that I cannot move from a game until I have won it or know exactly why I can't win it), rememorization of number strings related to work, and, for the first time, employment of a memory palace.

My father tried to teach the skill to us years ago, but, being young and lacking in interest, I did little to explore the concept. After dismissing it more recently as too complicated for my flabby grey cells, I finally picked it up in an attempt to circumvent my faulty recall and master the layout of the birth and resuscitation trays.

Logically, I settled on a place associated with Carol's practice -- her first floor bathroom, which I had entered repeatedly over the past two weeks and realized, upon some deliberate review, that I knew the basic design and furnishing of the room. The memorization itself went as follows, starting with the birth tray.

I step through the bathroom door and see the sink; there in the bowl is the chux pad to lay on the cookie sheet. The faucet is the birth set, while one handle is the catheter and the other handle the amnihook. To the right of the sink bowl lies the sterile gloves and the packets of sterile gauzes; to the left, on the basket of soaps and washcloths, stands the roll of paper towels. The pediatric stethoscope is draped over the ceramic vase in the left rear corner; flashlight and olive oil stand where the soap and hand lotion would ordinarily be. The mirror holds the bag of gloves.

Turning to the toilet, I observe the resuscitation tray -- towel draped in the bowl of the potty, ambubag on the seat, pulse oximeter on the lid. The bulb syringe is the handle, and the delee dangles with the toilet paper.

Despite the irony of the water closet, or perhaps because of it, the strategy works. I admit to some doubt in the extent of its effectiveness, at least in my awkward hands, but confidence lies in the direction of accomplishment and I intend to continue employing the strategy whenever opportunity arises. A toast to sharpened minds!